


Blown Fuses

by laschatzi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-10 13:32:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4393784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laschatzi/pseuds/laschatzi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian Jones is at the airport, on his way to his vacation, when he stumbles over a boy looking for his mother; their start is not smooth. As fate will have it, they have rented neighor beach houses on Cape Cod. Emma Swan is not amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The departure hall at JFK was buzzing like a beehive, like usual. Killian Jones closed his eyes and stood for a few moments motionless, concentrating on himself and on just breathing in and out, blocking out all the noise and confusion around him. Good thing he was about to head on a three weeks' vacation at his favorite place: by the sea. One last deep breath, and he was ready to open his eyes again and slowly make his way to the check-in counter.

When he was looking for the right counter, a boy, about twelve years old, caught his attention. He was standing all alone in the middle of the airport madness, looking like he didn't belong there, just a bit like himself. He was packed with a huge backpack and had a suitcase by his feet, looking around a little cluelessly; it seemed like he was looking for someone. He didn't have one of those small card signs around his neck that indicated he was an underage traveling alone, so he had to be with his parents or some adult at least. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket, looked at it and rolled his eyes in exasperation. Killian had seen enough. With three long steps, he was beside him.

“Everything okay, lad?” he asked.

The boy looked only briefly at him. “Not really,” he huffed. “Looks like I've lost my mom.”

“I see.” Killian pointed to the smart phone in the boy's hand. “Can't you call her?”

“Battery's dead,” the lad replied a little sheepishly.

“Oh, that's not a problem,” Killian told him with a smile, “you can use mine.” He fished his own phone from the pocket of his black leather jacket and handed it to the boy.

“Really?” The boy beamed. “Wow, thanks, that's really nice of you.” He took the offered cell phone and brushed his thumb over the touchscreen, but then his face fell. “Oh, no.”

“What's wrong?”

He shook his brunette head. “I'm afraid I can't call her. She's got a new phone and a new number two weeks ago.” he shrugged in defeat. “I haven't memorized it yet.” He sighed and gave Killian's phone back. “But thanks for your help.”

It wasn't in Killian's nature to give up that easily, it never had been. Thoughtfully, he tapped the edge of the flat smartphone against his lips. “Hmmm... but perhaps you have memorized the number of someone who has her number?” he suggested.

The boy's face lit up again. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “Uncle Dave! He's had the same number for five years.” Killian nodded with a smile and handed the phone to the boy again who added with a cheeky grin: “Actually, he's had the same phone for five years.” He rolled his eyes, and both shared a conspiratorial laugh.

Killian froze in mid-movement, when an icy female voice cut in from behind. “The hell are you doing?!”

Both whirled around and faced the attractive blonde owner of the voice. She looked furious and dangerous and stepped between Killian and the boy in a menacing way, even though she was not in the least as tall as Killian was. 

“Mom!” exclaimed the boy in obvious relief.

“That's your mother?” Killian ascertained.

“Damn right, I am his mother,” the woman growled, shooting icy glares from her green eyes and breathing fire at the same time, “and you better step away from my son!”

The boy tugged at the sleeve of her red leather jacket. “Mom...”

Killian took a step back and raised both hands in a soothing way. “I was just trying to help...”

The woman ignored the boy and demanded to know: “What were you about to hand to him?”

“Mom...” the boy urged.

Killian wasn't offended; to be honest, he was impressed with her fierceness. “My cell phone,” he told her flatly, “so he could call his uncle to get your number, and then to call you.”

That obviously threw her off track a little. Her jaw dropped, and she turned to the boy with a questioning frown. The boy rolled his eyes, and now Killian noticed that they were as green as his mother's.

“Mom, that's true,” the boy sighed.

“Oh...” Her head flew to Killian again, her face full of confusion and embarrassment. She ran her hand through her long hair, and he caught himself wondering how it would feel to let one of her locks run through his fingers, and with a frown and a barely perceptible shake of his head he cleared his mind again. “Ah... I...” she stuttered sheepishly and stumbled over her own words, “I guess I have to apologize...”

This was obviously something she wasn't used to and didn't like at all; the shuffle of her feet and the hint of grumpiness that coated her apology showed that clearly. Killian pursed his lips in an amused smile. “For being protective about your boy? I guess not.” He tilted his head. “There's a lot of creeps around.” He nodded a goodbye to the boy and grabbed his suitcase. “You're right to watch out.”

“Thanks again!” the boy called after him when he made his way across the hall.

***  
With a sigh, Emma Swan unfastened her seat belt when the signs above her head went off. The plane had taken off smoothly, and soon they would already reach Boston Airport. Then they'd pick up their rental car and head for the beach house at Cape Cod which would be their hideaway for the next three weeks. She was looking forward to spending some quiet time with her son; she could use it.

“Hey, are you in holiday mood, kid?” she asked and nudged him slightly. “Sorry that happened. I should have kept a better eye on you.”

Henry shrugged. “I didn't pay attention either, I just kept on wandering with my eyes glued to my phone. I stopped when it went out, and you were gone.” He threw his mother a mischievous glance. “You should have waited until I had called Uncle Dave. He'd have his number then.”

She frowned cluelessly. “What?”

“That guy with the cell phone?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Why would your grandfather want that guy's number?”

Henry's mouth twitched. “Not for himself.”

She huffed and rolled her eyes at her way too grown-up son. “Really?”

He shrugged again. “Why not? He looked okay, and he seemed like a nice guy,” was his verdict.

Emma shook her head in disbelief. “Henry! For all we know, he could be an axe murderer.”

Now it was the boy's turn to roll his eyes, mirroring his mother's expression. “Oh mom!” 

She turned fully to him and raised both hands. “Okay, right. Listen, kid, just to get this straight...” – for a moment nervous, she combed her hair behind her ears with both hands – “I don't need you to try anything to meddle with my... love life, got it?” She averted her eyes for a moment because, God, it seemed just so weird to discuss this with her twelve-year-old son. Almost stubbornly, she added: “I like my life just the way it is.”

“But mom,” he protested, “you're miserable!”

“I'm not!” she contradicted hotly and s little childishly.

“Whatever you say,” Henry grumbled and put the earplugs of his iPod in. Emma was a little unnerved; damn, she was his mother and supposed to take care of him, and not the other way round. And when did he grow so wise? Of course he was right – she was miserable. Most times she just managed to ignore that, having her life built revolving completely around her son and her work, blinding out the emptiness that even the small circle of dear friends – for lack of a real family – couldn't fill. Even the man her son called Uncle wasn't a relative; he was her best friend and the closest to a family she'd ever get. And lately, the boy had constantly been reminding her of that, questioning her openly displayed “I'm the happiest single in the world”-attitude.

Suddenly she wasn't so sure anymore if it had been a good idea to spend the holidays at such a quiet place like a beach house at Cape Cod. A little urban confusion would have been safer, made it easier not to think unwelcome thoughts. With a huff of frustration, she threw herself back in her seat and heard a soft curse from the passenger behind her when obviously her brisk move had made something fall off the tray table. She turned around and peeked through the space between her and Henry's seat.

“I'm sorry if I –“ She fell silent when she looked into a pair of strikingly blue eyes she recognized within a split second – it was the guy from before, the guy who'd offered his help to Henry... the guy she'd yelled at for it. The guy whom she had just classified as a potential axe murderer. Mortified, she closed her eyes for a moment. “Oh... it's you...”

His smile wasn't giving away if he'd overheard her conversation with Henry. “Ah, don't worry, love,” he replied generously, and – like before – she noticed his accent. And really, love? What kind of idiot talked like this? “It was only water,” he added.

“Sorry again,” she murmured and turned briskly away again, this time leaning her head very carefully against the back of her seat. Wonderful. Just what she needed. She tried to melt into her seat and become invisible, hoping he wouldn't address her any further. Thank God, he didn't.

When the plane landed shortly after, Henry of course spotted the man and smiled at him with an expression of pleased surprise. “Oh, hi!” He turned to Emma: “Mom, did you see...”

“Yeah, kid,” she cut him off almost grumpily and with a forced smile in the direction of the tall, dark, blue-eyed stranger (and why did she even notice those details?), added: “The world is small. Come on, let's go. I need fresh air.”

Henry rolled his eyes, and the guy winked at him. “Keep an eye on your mother, lad.”

They found their suitcases as two of the first passengers and left the airport building to pick up their rental car. Emma wasn't to happy that the drive from the airport to their holiday destination – Provincetown – was longer that the whole flight from New York to Boston, check-in time included; but it was a price she was willing to pay for staying at a secluded place and see and hear nothing from no one. She really loved her job as a social worker for orphaned kids who had gotten themselves into trouble; but those last few months had brought her to the verge of a burn-out. After a nasty breakup almost a year ago she'd thrown herself even more into work, but ultimately she'd reached her limits.

When they'd reached Provincetown, they went to the tourist center and picked up the key for the beach house and a map of the area, stopped by at a grocery store for their first stock of stuff they'd need, mostly food and a few items like, and finally found the little, but comfortable and cozy cottage that would be their home for the next three weeks. For Emma, it was love at first sight, and after she'd carried the groceries into the small kitchen, she wandered through the small, homely rooms and inspected them thoroughly. Henry darted out to see the beach after he'd deposited his suitcase in one of the two bedrooms, and she was glad that he seemed to excited about this secluded place that she'd been afraid would hold very little appeal for a teenager. But then, he wasn't an ordinary teenager – he was smart, very quiet and supportive, and sometimes she wondered what was going on in his mind. Then she wished he was a bit more outgoing, and that was when she blamed herself – because Emma Swan was the absolute opposite of outgoing.

After a few minutes, she heard his overall excited voice call her outside: “Mom! Mom! Come here! You'll never guess who our neighbor is!”

Emma frowned. What was the kid talking about? Here she came for a vacation practically to the end of the world to have peace and quietude, and how on earth could the neighbor cottage be rented to someone they knew? Please, no, she thought and followed Henry's call very reluctantly. When she left the kitchen through the back door and stood on her porch, shielding her eyes with her hand against the sun and looking for Henry, she spotted him down on the beach, waving to her and gesticulating to the nearby porch of the neighbor beach house. Emma's jaw literally dropped when she recognized the tall figure in the black leather jacket, the dark hair tousled by the wind. 

“You?” she blurted out, the annoyance in her voice barely hidden.

It was the guy from the plane, Henry's attempted savior. She didn't want to believe her eyes and groaned inwardly. What the fuck?! The man grinned, obviously amused by her expression, and even from where she was standing she could see the fine skin around his blue eyes crinkle. “I promise I'm not an axe murderer,” he replied dryly, and she briefly closed her eyes.

Great. Of course he had overheard her conversation with Henry on the plane. If he told her now that she didn't look miserable, she was going to punch him in the face, but he didn't do such a thing, thankfully.

“Well, that's good to know,” she remarked because she had the feeling she should say something, and the stranger – now their neighbor – tilted his head in a weirdly old-fashioned gesture and made a move to retreat into the house. Obviously, she thought in pleased surprise, he wasn't planning on being obnoxious. 

“I'm Henry,” the kid suddenly called before the man could turn around and gestured towards her, the stranger's blue eyes quietly following, “and this is my mom.” He threw her a sharp don't-embarrass-me!-look, and she sighed.

“Emma Swan,” she murmured.

“Killian Jones,” came the nonchalant reply, “my pleasure.”

“Yeah,” she sighed.

***  
On the third day, when Emma and Henry sat down for breakfast and switched the radio on, the power went out with a distinct pang. With an unnerved huff, Emma put down her coffee mug and rolled her eyes. "Really?!"

"A short?" Henry looked up from his book.

"Obviously." Sighing, Emma pushed her chair back. "The fuse box is in the broom closet."

"There must be a flashlight there, I think I saw one," Henry said helpfully and got up from his seat, too, following his mother on her heels.

They found the fuse box easily. Emma opened it and peeked inside, the flashlight ominously flickering. "What the hell..." she murmured. Having lived alone for almost all her life, she was quite familiar with any sort of gaskets, electric mains and such, but this fuse box looked like nothing she had ever seen. In fact, not one single fuse was visible. There were, however, various veneers fastened with pretty antique-looking screws.

Unnoticed by his mother, Henry's face lit up, a mischievous expression spreading over his features. "Why don't we ask Killian if he can help?" he suggested in a deliberately nonchalant tone.

Emma chewed on her lower lip in concentration and tried to grasp the concept of the mysterious construction. "Who?" she asked absentmindedly.

"Killian," he repeated, "our neighbor, remember?"

"What?" She shot him a glance and grimaced. "No! Don't be ridiculous, Henry. Why should we? This is just an electrical short." She turned her attention to the fuse box again. "I need a screwdriver," she murmured.

The boy groaned. "Oh God. Seriously, mom?"

Emma paid Henry's grumbling no attention and clammed the flashlight between her front teeth while she went rummaging through the toolbox, accompanied by unintelligible curse words. Finally, she found a slightly crooked screwdriver and leaned a little forward with her flashlight, examining the various screws suspiciously, trying to figure out which one to attack first. Then she decided that one was as good as the other and brought her screwdriver into position.

"Don't!" came the sharp call of a male voice from behind, almost barked like a command, and Emma jumped in shock and dropped the screwdriver with a clattering sound, whirling around in the same moment, a curse on her lips. She caught the flashlight just in time before it landed on the floor next to the screwdriver. Their neighbor was standing in the kitchen with a grinning Henry right behind him – hair tousled and damp, obviously from his morning shower, wearing a plain white, v-necked t-shirt and grey sweatpants, looking ridiculously attractive; and again, why the fuck did she even notice that?

"You scared the hell out of me!" she snapped and threw a deadly glare at her son, pressing a little haughtily through clenched teeth: "I'm sorry Henry disturbed you. I can handle a blown fuse just fine by myself." Really, what had the kid been thinking? Half-annoyed, half-embarrassed (she was still in her pajamas, her hair tied up in a messy pony tail) she dived down to pick up the screwdriver, hoping Mr. Perfect would get the hint and leave.

"Oh no, you can't handle it," came the immediate reply in a low, humming voice, and Emma whirled around again, not believing her ears. 

“What?!” Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Listen, buddy," she growled, her voice cutting and sharp as broken glass, a clear menace in it, while Henry rolled his eyes, "if you think you can give me your misogynistic crap about weak women..." 

"Gods, no!" he interrupted, raising both hands, and shook his head. "I'd never dare insinuating such a thing, I can clearly see you're a tough lass." Emma's jaw almost dropped at his ridiculous way of speaking, and for a moment, he'd taken the wind out of her sails. He tilted his head, fixing his blue eyes on hers, the tiniest hint of amusement in his voice now as he went on: "But I've come on vacation here for the last four years now, and I know the electric mains in these houses are by no means fit for the 21st century.” He swayed his right hand through the air in an all-encompassing move which distracted her for a second. “When I had to deal with a blown fuse for the first time, I got my fingers badly whacked by an electric shock. I know where you should touch... and where you shouldn't.” Briefly, his tongue darted out and moistened his lips, and that distracted her even more. “The fuses,” he added unnecessarily. 

Emma threw him a suspicious glance, for a split second not sure if he was still talking about fuses – and if so, which fuses he really meant. For the first time, she really looked at him, scrutinized his expression. He'd cocked an eyebrow, and that, along with a glint in his blue eyes she couldn't quite put her finger on, gave him a teasing, mischievous air. And was that even a tiny smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth? She wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Oh." Emma felt a little stupid, pressed her lips together and decided insisting on fixing this alone would be childish and ridiculous. "Well, in that case..." She took a step back and held the screwdriver out to him. "Be my guest."

"Why, thank you, milady," he replied in an overly polite way, and tilted his head like in a bow, very clearly teasing her now, and she wanted to be mad at him, she really did. But his teasing, obvious as it was, had a benevolence about it and wasn't obnoxious or arrogant in the least; against her will and much to her own surprise, she had to suppress a grin. Serves you right, she admitted to herself. Again, the guy – Killian, she remembered – was only trying to help, and she threatened him with bodily harm. "Hold the light for me, would you be so kind, love," he prompted while he stepped inside the broom closet. Emma did as she was told, and while Killian was fidgeting with the fuse box, Henry shook his head at her behind his back – you're impossible, mom. She shrugged – how was I supposed to know? 

Suddenly, loud music from the radio blasted through the kitchen when the power went on again. Killian closed the fuse box and stepped out of the broom closet. "Done," he announced unnecessarily and with only the tiniest hint of self-satisfaction in his voice, handing her back the crooked screwdriver.

"Thank you." Emma nodded, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. "Well..."

Henry glared at her, and she sighed. "Can I offer you a coffee?" she asked a little sheepishly, and Killian smiled. Damn, his eyes were really quite blue, weren't they?

"Coffee is always good," he replied, and she poured him a mug.

Henry slumped down on his chair again, and judging by the expression on his face, he was pretty satisfied with himself. “Do you live in New York?” he inquired bluntly and sprinkled some cinnamon on his cocoa.

Emma blushed because she knew what the little brigand was doing. Killian turned his full attention to the boy and answered: “Yes, actually I do, lad.”

“Cool,” Henry replied gleefully, “I mean, what were the odds that we were on the same plane and rented houses next to each other!”

His mother rolled her eyes, but Killian nodded seriously. “Quite remarkable,” he confirmed and sipped on his coffee. “This is good,” he said to Emma, “It's horrible what some people deem coffee nowadays.”

She wasn't sure what to reply, and much to her horror, Henry suddenly left the table with some lame excuse (“I think I heard my phone ring”). But Killian seemed to sense her uneasiness and put down his half-emptied coffee mug. “I should go now,” he said and scratched behind his ear. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“No, thank you,” Emma replied hastily and added on an impulse: “Sorry if I was a little...” – she shrugged – “...prickly.”

He snorted a little laugh, a sound that was adorable in a confusing way. “Oh no, don't worry, Swan,” he waved her off, and her head snapped up when he called her by her last name. No one had ever called her Swan before, and oddly enough, it sounded kind of... intimate. Much more that if he'd called her Emma. She frowned a little, but it was more because of her confusion than because she was irritated by it. “You weren't prickly,” he told her with that same slight smile from before; the smile that made her wonder if there was a little tease in his eyes. “You were fierce,” he added.

She cleared her throat. “Anyway... thanks for your help.”

He tilted his head and even swayed out his right hand a little, and it looked suspiciously like a bow which was completely ridiculous now, wasn't it? “At your service, love,” he said and slipped out of her back door before she could react in any way.

“What the hell was that?” she murmured.

***  
The absence of stress, the quietude and the sea air provided Emma with a sleep so deep and relaxing that, unusual for her, her holidays transformed her into a relatively early riser. So, she got used to wake up at seven o'clock sharp and silently trolled to the kitchen while Henry was still blissfully and fast asleep. She'd never have thought how peaceful it could be to sit outside on the bottom stair of her porch, her first mug of coffee in her hands and her bare toes curling in the cool sand, listening to the cries of the seagulls and the splash of the ocean waves.

One should have thought that, in a holiday resort, at this hour of the day, nobody else would be awake. Instead, that wasn't the case. At first, she didn't recognize the tall figure approaching on the beach from the right, because she had to look into the blinding sun. But when the guy jogged past her porch, she saw that it was their neighbor, Killian, obviously an early bird himself, returning from a morning run. He was concentrating on his run, not paying attention to the left or to the right, and hadn't noticed her sitting there on her porch.

Quietly, Emma put her mug down on the stair beside her and – against her will, because she didn't even care – watched him from underneath her eyelashes; just casually, as she assured herself, and just because she was looking in his direction anyway. The morning air was still a bit chilly, so he'd put on long sweatpants, like that day he'd been to her house to help with the fuses. To protect himself against the fresh morning breeze, he was wearing a hooded sweater; when he'd finished his run and stopped at the stairs leading up to his own porch, however, he obviously felt the heat of the run, because he crossed his arms and pulled the sweater over his head. While he did, he accidentally also lifted the white t-shirt he was wearing underneath, and Emma caught a tiny glimpse of his flat stomach, dusted with an exquisite sprinkle of dark hair that formed a narrow path disappearing into the waistband of his pants.

She gasped involuntarily and made a sudden move with her hands, gripping the edge of the step she was sitting on. Accidentally, she knocked over her forgotten mug, and the tepid rest of her coffee was spilled and stained her pajama pants.

“Shit!” She jumped to her feet.

Killian, who had been using his sweater to wipe the beads of perspiration from his neck, turned around and raised an eyebrow in surprise. Well, great. Emma felt like she'd been caught doing something forbidden. She gesticulated towards her upturned mug and blurted out: “I spilled my coffee. I was –“ She bit her tongue before the word distracted tumbled out. What the fuck?! She had not been distracted. What should even have distracted her? “Hi,” she added quickly.

He pursed his mouth into a lopsided smile and tilted his head. “Good morning, Swan,” he replied and rubbed the sweater over his face. “Sun got into your eyes?”

“Yeah.” She cleared her throat and picked up her mug. “Nice run?”

“Very nice,” came his answer and he snorted that little laugh again she'd noticed before. “You should try it.” And with that, he threw the sweater over his shoulder and climbed the stairs to his porch and back entrance, leaving Emma to watch his retreat – which she didn't, of course. Why would she be interested in watching the firm muscles of his back twitch and roll underneath the white shirt that was so sweat-soaked from his run that it clung to his body like a second skin... Really?! she mentally chastised herself and shook her head a little to get back to reality. What was wrong with her? Unfortunately, her eyes were still lingering on his backside, when he threw a glance at her over his shoulder. She blushed, and he grinned. “Enjoy the view,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes that looked extraordinarily blue this morning, reflecting the ocean. When she opened her mouth to fire a sharp reply, he pointed his thumb over the shoulder towards the horizon. “The ocean, I meant,” he added, but his pause had been long enough to made her suspect he definitely knew what she'd been watching.

Mad at herself more than at him, she rolled her eyes and made for a quick retreat into the house.

The next morning, however, she was having her morning coffee on the porch again.

***   
Every morning when he was on his run, Killian Jones' thoughts were revolving around his holiday home neighbor. Although she was easily one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen – in a very unspectacular way – her looks were not the reason for that fascination. What had captivated him from the beginning about Emma Swan, since their very first encounter at the airport, were the contrasts he'd detected within her personality. She appeared to be very strong and fierce on the outside, very determined and sure of what she wanted. On the other hand, she had an air of fragility and vulnerability about her that made her seem heartbreakingly lost – insecure about herself, about who she was and who she wanted to be. 

Mirrored in her eyes he saw the same kind of forlornness he'd felt himself for a long time. She undeniably attracted him, yes – but there was more to it than that: he was curious to know her. Tough as she had made herself seem, he'd caught a tiny glimpse of transparence, of a permeability in her shell when she'd finally grumpily accepted his help with the blown fuse and later, when she'd offered him coffee. Perhaps there'd been even a flicker on interest in her eyes. 

Yes, Emma Swan was someone worth knowing – but he figured it would take quite an amount of time until she'd let him, and he wasn't yet sure if it was even an option to make the effort, not knowing if she wasn't going to simply disappear after a few days. This was a holiday resort, after all.

Three days after his first aid in Emma's kitchen, however, it happened that he caught her watching him from her porch when he returned from his morning run. At first, he hadn't noticed her sitting there with her coffee, but her muffled curse when she'd spilled her coffee over herself caught his attention. They exchanged a few words, and her obvious nervousness made him curious. Killian Jones was surely aware of the effect he had on most females of all various ages, and he was familiar with the sight of women becoming nervous in his presence, flustered, a giggling mess. Now Emma had been far from that, but the signs were unmistakably there; and when he threw a last glance at her and saw she was still staring at him, checking him out, he knew for sure that she wasn't completely disinclined.

And then, the next day, she was there again. This time, his eyes scanned the beach when he was approaching her house, and he saw her already from afar sitting on the stairs, coffee mug in her hands. He smiled and raised his hand in a casual wave, and she pressed her lips together and smiled back. This time he stopped at the foot of her porch.

"Hello, neighbor," he greeted with a grin, "how's the coffee?"

"Thankfully, not on my PJs today," she replied. "How long have you been running?"

"About an hour," he answered and pulled his sweater over his head; the morning sun was already strong.

That seemed to throw her off track a little, as he noticed with pleasure; she was overtly anxious not to look anywhere but at his face. "Ah... wow... an hour," she almost stuttered and added hastily: "You rise early." She bit her lip, blushed and averted her eyes for a moment, and Killian had to suppress a chuckle.

"Rise and shine is my motto, love," he replied and threw the sweater over his shoulder, turning toward his own porch. Better not push it too far. If he should find her waiting for him the next day, too, he would know she was at least sort of interested. He could feel her eyes in his back, and right before he entered his beach house through the back door, he threw a look over his shoulder again. This time, she didn't look like a miscreant that had been caught red-handed; only the slightest shade of pink colored her cheeks, and she smiled again that careful, almost secret smile with her lips pressed together and briefly flicked her wrist in a wave.

He wasn't really surprised to find her again the morning after.

***  
One week after their arrival, it was the hottest day since their vacation had started, and Emma and Henry spent the day between lying on sunbeds on their shadowy porch – the sand was far too hot – and diving into the water. From time to time, Emma secretly scanned the beach, but their neighbor was nowhere to be seen; he didn't seem to be in the house either, Come to think of it, she'd never seen him around during the day.

In the evening, they were having pizza for dinner and a fruit salad she'd made, and completely out of the blue Henry suggested: “Mom, why don't we invite Killian over for dinner tomorrow?”

“Ah... what?” she asked, taken by surprise. “Why?” 

The boy shrugged. “Why not? He's nice. And you've been waiting for him every morning!”

Emma felt a deep blush creep over her neck. “Nonsense, Henry,” she replied almost harshly. “I wake up early, and I like having my first coffee outside. It's not my fault he always comes back from his run at that time. And I thought you were asleep!”

Henry grinned. “I wake up early, too,” he just said. “And nobody's giving you a fault. I just thought it would be nice to invite him.”

Emma pushed the bowl with her fruit salad aside. “I don't think that's a good idea, kid,” she told him, “you don't even know if he'd like that.” Henry frowned, and she quickly explained: “Maybe he just wants his peace and quiet here, just like me.”

Henry chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, but then his face lit up and he shot his index finger at his mother like a bullet. “You think he's cute!” he blurted out.

Emma's jaw dropped. “What?!”

Henry nodded enthusiastically. “You're interested in him!” he exclaimed. “And that's why you're scared!”

Emma raised her hands in a standoffish gesture. “No, I'm not!” she contradicted firmly, very firmly. Almost a little too firmly. “You're imagining things!”

Henry folded his arms. “You know, mom, not every guy is like my dad,” he told her in a quite precocious way. “Not every guy will abandon you.”

“I know that, kid,” she replied, her voice a little less upset. She always had to remember herself that her son was only twelve years old; and when did he grow up so much? “Still, just because a guy is halfway decent looking, that doesn't mean I'm interested in him,” she clarified.

Henry raised his eyebrows, giving a perfect imitation of her very own really?!-expression. “Halfway decent looking?” he echoed.

She threw her hands in the air. “Okay, so he is hella cute!” she blurted out and blushed a little more. “There, I've said it. Are you happy now?” Henry looked at her with a goofy grin, somehow he looked like he was secretly amused about something, which confused her. And then, somehow it was weird – why did he seem to be looking past her? “What?” she inquired. Then, suddenly, it dawned on her, and she closed her eyes with a feeling of fatal shame. “He's standing right behind me, isn't he?” she asked.

Henry's grin broadened. “Hi, Killian,” he said across her shoulder

“Ah... hi,” came the husky reply from behind her, and she felt the little hairs at the back of her neck bristle. Had she just called Killian Jones hella cute while he'd been standing behind her? She wanted to disappear in a hole. “I'm sorry to disturb you,” Killian said, and she wanted to die.

“That's fine, you're not disturbing,” Henry replied nonchalantly and got up from his seat. “I... oh, I think my phone is ringing.” Of course.

With a sigh, she slowly got up from her chair, dragging the dreadful moment out as long as possible, when she'd have to look him in the eyes. His damn blue eyes. If he was smirking, she'd punch him in the face. She drew a deep breath and turned around slowly. “Okay... well, this is a little awkward now...”

Killian was standing on her porch and looked at her with a little frown, tilting his head in question, his expression not giving away anything. “Why, love?” he asked, and weirdly enough, it didn't look like he was making fun of her.

She shrugged sheepishly. “Because you heard what I said...”

“Oh yeah,” he replied quickly, “well, I heard you asked the lad if I was standing right behind you.” He actually made a guilty face. “I have to apologize,” he went on and scratched behind his ear, and she started to hope that he really hadn't heard her embarrassing praise of his handsomeness before. “I shouldn't have snuck in just like that...”

“No, no, it's fine,” Emma waved him off hastily, determined to change the subject. For a moment, they just stood there, looking at each other, and she was so distracted by the midnight blue shade of his eyes that she even forgot to ask herself why he'd come over. If she hadn't known any better, she'd have thought Henry had willed him to, in his obvious zeal to set her up with him. Which was ridiculous, because she really didn't need anything like that in her life. No, thanks very much, not at all. But then, he was really beyond cute; if she was honest with herself, he was breathtaking. Snap out of it! she chastised herself and cleared her throat. “Ah... would you like a... bowl of fruit salad?” she asked, saying the first thing that came to her mind.

Killian scratched behind his ear again; obviously a nervous tic. “Sure,” he replied with a grin, and Emma gladly took the occasion to escape into her kitchen.

Inside, she paced the room a few times with long steps, combing her hands through her hair. Of course, her miscreant of a son was nowhere to be seen; the door to his bedroom was closed. Fine. What the hell was she doing? Okay. Okay, relax, she told herself, you're just being polite. No big deal. He's a nice guy, he's your temporary neighbor, and he probably just has run out of sugar or something and wants to borrow some. And he sounds like sin and looks like a Greek god, but that shouldn't be held against him.

“Snap out of it,” she growled to herself and quickly fetched a small porcelain bowl from the kitchen closet and filled it up with fruit salad, grabbed a dessert spoon and headed outside again. Killian was still standing there somewhat awkwardly in the middle of the porch, like he was a little nervous himself.

“Here,” she said almost a little briskly and put down the bowl on the table, “have a seat.”

“Thanks,” he replied with a bright smile and sat down, diving right into the fruit salad. “This is delicious, love,” he complimented her after the first bite, and she blushed a little, which was annoying. Really, why was he even talking like that?

“It's nothing, really,” she shrugged, “just a little chopped fruit with lemon juice and a drop of maraschino liquor. I'm not that much of a cook,” she added and thought: smart move. I guess inviting him for dinner is not an option any more now. Not that I ever intended to.

Suddenly, she noticed that he scrutinized her closely, his head tilted to the side. “Can you make sandwiches?” he inquired out of the blue.

Emma frowned. “Yeah, I guess,” she replied slowly and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Why?”

“Well, the thing is, I...” – he scratched behind his ear again, and God, did he have to be so adorable on top of all the handsomeness? – “I have a boat. I mean, I've rented a boat for the time of my stay, I always do. I go sailing every day.”

“Oh...” Now there was the explanation why he was never around to be seen during the day. And he'd told her that, because...? Without being aware of it, Emma leaned a little forward, her body language quietly urging him to go ahead.

“I was wondering...” She noticed that his hand was fidgeting with his spoon, rolling it between his fingers. Nervous. Adorable. “I was wondering if you and Henry would like to join me tomorrow?” he asked. When his words were out, he looked at her again, an expectant smile playing around his mouth.

Now it was Emma's turn to be befuddled. “Ah... I've never... I mean, I have no idea how to sail a boat,” she almost stumbled over her own words, her thoughts whirling. “I... I wouldn't be of much help, I'm afraid.”

He chuckled. “That's actually not a problem, Swan,” he replied, sounding already much more confident now. “It's a rather small boat. I could sail it one-handed, if I had to.” She smiled a little shyly, and he added with a teasing grin: “But if you want to help... I'm a good instructor.” His eyes bore into hers, held her gaze as if he wanted to hypnotize her, and she could have sworn that a subtle undertone had found its way into his voice; an undertone that made the skin between her shoulder blades prickle.

“Sounds like fun,” she said and wished she had a little more control over her voice; it sounded a little squeaky in her own ears. “I bring the sandwiches then?”

He tilted his head. “That would be great.”

She swallowed. “And when do we... set sail?” she asked.

He smiled. “After my morning run, I'll need twenty minutes to shower and gather my stuff, would that be okay for you?”

Emma nodded once. “Perfect.” She wished she didn't sound so tongue-tied.

“Great.” He smiled brightly now, and she couldn't help but stupidly grin back; it was so infectious. He tapped his thumb against the bowl. “And that's really good. If you have some leftovers, I'd love you to bring them.”

"Okay, it's a date," Emma replied spontaneously and added hastily, her stupid blush deepening: "I mean, it's not a date, it's..." she waved her hands through the air in desperate search for a smart escape, but her mind seemed to have gone blank. The seconds ticked away. Damn, she looked like an idiot and felt like...

"I see you tomorrow, Swan," Killian interrupted her ramblings with a smile, obviously his own earlier nervousness completely evaporated now, so that he could help her through hers. And he turned around to discreetly leave her to her flaming cheeks and stuttering heart, and why the fuck was she so nervous now? I wasn't a date, it was just a nice gesture from him, mostly for Henry probably. 

Emma took the remaining fruit bowls to the kitchen and put them in the dishwasher, then she started to busy herself with slicing bread and gathering ham and cheese and lettuce. After a few minutes, Henry appeared, a suspicious frown on his face. He tried to look past her.

"Killian already gone?" he asked in an almost accusatory tone and huffed. "Mom! You scared him off!"

Emma suppressed a smug grin. "Actually, no," she replied cryptically.

"What do you mean?" Henry quirked a suspicious eyebrow. "And why are you making sandwiches now?"

"We're invited to go sailing tomorrow," she told him almost nonchalantly.

The boy's eyes widened. "Killian has a boat?!" he exclaimed.

“He has rented a boat for the time of his stay,” she corrected. “And he invited us to go sailing with him tomorrow. I said yes,” she added unnecessarily.

“Oh man, that's awesome!” Henry enthused and grinned. “Of course you said yes.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Go to sleep, kid.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

The next morning, Emma woke up maybe fifteen minutes earlier than her usual time – not because she was excited about the prospect of going sailing with Killian Jones, not at all; but she had just an engrained inner clock that never failed her. Yes, exactly, that was the reason. She showered, woke up Henry and made breakfast. While he was getting ready, she packed the sandwiches, a tupperware box with the leftovers of the fruit salad, and a few bottles of water into a cooling bag and hummed a little tune while she did so. Henry grinned to himself, but was wise enough not to comment on the fact that Emma Swan normally didn't _hum_.

 

From the kitchen window she saw Killian coming back from his morning run, and twenty minutes later she ushered Henry out the front door, and right – Killian was just leaving the house too, carrying a large kit bag over his shoulders. He smiled brightly at them, maybe also a little relieved that they had shown up?

 

“Ready to set sails, mates?” he asked in a teasing tone and unlocked his rental car, motioning for Henry to climb in the back seat.

 

“Aye, Captain!” the boy replied enthusiastically, and Emma threw a fond glance at her son, then smiled a little shyly at Killian.

 

“Hi,” she said and handed him her cooling bag. “Sandwiches and fruit salad, as requested.”

 

His eyebrows twitched. “That's a good sailor,” he teased, and for some reason that made Emma blush; she quickly turned her eyes away. He took the bag and stowed it in the trunk along with his kit bag, then they got both into the car and drove off to the nearby mole.

 

The boat Killian had rented was a modestly dimensioned, pretty little sloop, as far as Emma could judge. They got on board, he quickly showed them around and explained a few things, and in no time they were heading for the open water as the wind was, according to Killian's words, just right to gather enough speed, but not too strong so that it would become uncomfortable for newbies like Emma and Henry.

 

She'd been secretly afraid of the whole situation turning out to be a little awkward, but much to her delight, Emma found it wasn't like that at all. Killian was pleasant company and easy to talk to; he showed genuine interest in her life, asked about Henry's school and what he wanted to be in the future, about her job and their home; but he also seemed to instinctively sense whenever she was getting uncomfortable because she didn't feel like revealing too much of herself. Then he stepped back and asked something random like what her favorite food was or told them something about himself instead. All the time he was answering the helm, adjusting the sails on occasion and keeping an eye on the horizon, but that was all done so casually that their conversation felt really intense.

 

They learned quite a few things about him – about his origins (he came from England, hence the accent, and had come to New York for a job opportunity), and his work (he was a graphic designer and worked for a prestigious publishing house). He also talked about loss and loneliness, but again – whenever he felt it was getting too personal and making Emma uncomfortable, he quickly cracked a joke or explained some random nautical term to Henry. It was really amazing how easy it was to be with and around him.

 

After a while, Killian beckoned Henry over to him. "Try your hand at the helm, m'boy?"

 

Henry's face lit up even more, if that was possible – and it was obvious that he was having a really great time. "Really? May I?"

 

Killian chuckled at his enthusiasm. "Of course. Come here." Henry eagerly rushed over to him, followed by his mother's fond smile, and Killian stepped to the side to make room for him, showing him where to put his hands. "Just keep her steady. See the compass here?” He tapped his finger on the glass. “Keep an eye on the needle. This is where we're going."

 

The boy nodded and grasped the helm with serious determination. "Okay."

 

"Easy, lad," Killian said softly and loosened Henry's fingers a little. "No need for a grip that tight. She's not a bike, she won't keel over if you let loose a bit. Your touch should be firm, but gentle."

 

Emma averted her eyes at his words, at the same time a little flustered and annoyed at herself because they'd made her heart beat a little faster, which was completely ridiculous. He was talking to her _son_ about the right way to handle a _ship_ , for fuck's sake. _Firm but gentle_. She drew a deep breath and blew out her cheeks a little cluelessly, not really sure what to think about her own reactions to Killian Jones. Was she starting to feel attracted to him? Not that she'd need that in her life – it was uncomplicated as it was, and she was happy. _No, you're miserable,_ Henry's words rang in her ears, and she frowned and shook her head to cast them away.

 

She looked at the horizon and squinted her eyes against the late morning sun. It was getting really hot by now, and Emma took off the short-sleeved blouse she'd put on over her halterneck-top, then she pulled up her hair in a loose bun on top of her head, using an elastic she'd been wearing on her wrist. That was much better.

 

"Careful, you'll get burned," said Killian's low voice and made her jump; he was standing right beside her and smiled apologetically.

 

"Sorry, love." He pointed vaguely towards the sky. "Sunburned," he explained. "The sun's very strong here on the open water. Have you applied protection?"

 

Emma bit her lower lip, feeling a little silly. “Only to my legs and face...”

 

He tilted his head with a smile that didn't look condescending at all. “I have some here for you, wait.” He went for his kit bag that he had deposited on a wooden trunk on deck and fetched a plastic bottle of sun milk. “Here you go.”

 

“Thanks,” she murmured and threw a doubtful look over her shoulder. The halterneck-top left half of her back bare, as if she were wearing a bikini top. There was no way she'd be able to apply the sun protection to all the crucial parts.

 

“Need a hand, love?” Killian asked in a slightly amused voice, and when she looked at him she saw a little glint in his eyes that looked a particularly deep blue today, reflecting the color of the ocean. Teasing? Flirting? She wasn't sure and blushed a little, cursing herself for it.

 

But she shoved the sun milk into his offered hand. “If you'd be so kind...”

 

“Of course.” He opened the bottle and squeezed a respectable amount of the smooth lotion into his left palm. Then he put the bottle aside and rubbed his hands together slowly. Emma watched them move, her eyes glued to them suddenly, and all she could think was: _firm but gentle_.

 

He stepped behind the chair she was sitting on, and she swallowed, embarrassingly aware of his nearness. She had the impression that her skin was tingling from the anticipation of his touch. Without being aware of it, her fingers curled around the edge of her seat on either side of her thighs. Killian started to apply the sun milk on her shoulders, putting one hand on each, moving them over the curve of her shoulders in circular motions.

 

“Henry is good at the helm,” he said in a conversational tone. “Has he ever been on a boat before?”

 

Emma let out a breath she hadn't been aware she'd been holding. She could deal with this. “No, never,” she replied, relieved at the distraction. “But he's always liked everything connected to the sea and boats and such...” Killian's hands glided over her shoulder blades and applied the lotion on and between them, and it made her a little nervous that she couldn't see his face. She cleared her throat and went on a little hastily: “I mean, at the age of five, six years every boy loves pirates, right?” _You're rambling, for fuck's sake. Stop rambling!_ “But he was always fond of the sea,” she finished lamely.

 

“He's a natural,” Killian replied and spread the balm neatly between her shoulder blades with circular motion of his thumbs; it almost felt like a massage. _Firm but gentle._ “Look, Swan,” he went on, and it hit her again how intimate it sounded when he called her that, “this boat is at my disposal for the rest of my vacation. Feel free to join me whenever you like.” He put his right palm flat against her back and swept his fingertips underneath the clasp and elastic of her bra, spreading the smooth liquid there too, and she bit back a gasp. With horror she registered that her body started to react to his touch in the most inappropriate way and that – almost like a reflex – she leaned back a little into his touch, pressing her back the tiniest bit more against his palm. _Fuck_. She shifted on her seat.

 

“Ah... oh no... no,” she almost stuttered, “we... we can't possibly bother you.”

 

His hands stilled for a moment. “Emma, it's no bother, really,” he told her in a serious tone, “otherwise I wouldn't have offered it.” His hands slid up again, fingertips brushing under the neckholder, applying protection there too. “I mean,” he went on, “I don't have a problem being alone on a boat, just me and the ocean. I'm used to it.” She could have sworn she'd heard the tiniest melancholic undertone in his accented voice. “But when the company is enjoyable, being alone loses its appeal,” he added soberly and slid his hands up her neck now, his thumbs smoothing out the lotion along her hairline while his fingertips slightly massaged the spots behind her ears, undeniably sending a shiver down her spine. _Firm but gentle._ Suddenly, he leaned a little forward and brought his lips closer to her left ear. “Most people forget to apply protection behind their ears,” he murmured in a husky, low voice, “and the skin is so _delicate_ there.” His breath brushed the side of her neck; Emma gripped the edge of her seat tighter and, _holy Mother of God_ , she felt fucking _goosebumps_ spread on her forearms despite the heat. She couldn't help but wonder – and she really _shouldn't_ – how it would feel if he ran his hands all over her body – _firmly but gently_ – with _another_ purpose than to apply sun protection, if the latter already evoked such physical reactions from her. Killian patted her lightly on the shoulders, shaking her from her reverie. “There you go. Now you're good.”

 

Emma cleared her throat again, her mouth very dry now. Damn, what was wrong with her? “Thank you...”

 

Killian stepped aside to face her again, and once more she was mesmerized by the sight of his hands spreading the remnants of the lotion on his own forearms. He tilted his head and raised a teasing eyebrow, that little glint in his eyes again. “A good captain always takes care of his crew.” She was glad he obviously didn't expect an answer but turned his attention on Henry again, leaving her to recover from her hot face and dry mouth.

 

“How's it going, First Mate?” he called, and Henry grinned.

 

“Smoothly, Captain,” the boy replied, and Killian chuckled.

 

“We shall hoist anchor now,” he said and went over to the helm, “and then have some lunch. After that, we'll provide dinner.”

 

Henry's eyes grew wide. “Dinner?” he echoed. “How?”

 

“With these,” Killian announced and pointed to two fishing poles fixed to the wall of the cabin.

 

“How cool is that?!” Henry exclaimed with fresh excitement, and Emma jumped up from her seat.

 

“Whoa, boys,” she called, “cool it down. I'm not killing or cooking anything you pull out from the water,” she announced, and Henry grimaced. “I told you I'm not a good cook,” she added in a severe tone, directed at Killian.

 

“I know.” He tilted his head. “But I am.”

 

Emma couldn't help but grin and folded her arms, her earlier embarrassment and confusion already forgotten. “Is there anything you're not good at?” she asked in a mocking tone.

 

Killian smirked, and it was the most teasing grin she'd ever seen from him. It made her stomach flutter – pleasantly, as she realized to her surprise. “Oh, there surely is, love,” he replied, “but you don't expect me to spill all my secrets just yet, do you?”

 

Emma pressed her lips into a smile and slightly shook her head. Then she fetched her cooling bag and brought out the sandwiches while Killian showed Henry how to hoist the anchor. They sat down at the small wooden table on deck and enjoyed their lunch in the sun while the waves were slowly, gently rocking the boat. After that, Killian took the two fishing poles and first explained, then showed Henry how to use them. When Henry had cast his rod – a little clumsily at first, but after a few attempts to Killian's satisfaction – Killian showed him how to hold it, to move it from time to time.

 

Emma watched the scene with a smile. She delighted in how happy Henry obviously was, how excited, how much fun he had. She hadn't seen her son that boisterous in a long time. Killian seemed to be a natural with kids, which of course made him even more attractive. He was focusing to 100 % on the boy, and Henry seemed to have forgotten everything around him. They were meticulously working on getting the little basin Killian kept aboard filled with fish and thereby enjoying themselves, while Emma enjoyed watching.

 

It was late afternoon, and the shadows were already stretching when they moored again at the little port. Henry even dozed off a little on the short drive to their houses and grumbled a little when Emma woke him.

 

“In about one hour and a half the barbecue should be ready,” Killian said as he unloaded the trunk.

 

“Can I do anything?” Emma asked, feeling a little guilty. “Bring anything?”

 

“Just good mood,” he replied with a wink. “Your son provided the best part of the dinner, so it's all well-balanced.”

 

She averted her eyes for a second and smiled, perfectly well knowing that wasn't entirely true, but didn't comment any further. “Okay, so we'll see you later then.”

 

When Emma and Henry climbed the few steps to the neighbor porch almost exactly ninety minutes later, Killian had already the barbecue going that every one of the beach houses was equipped with, and the porch table was neatly, but casually set with plates and cutlery. Killian came out of the back door carrying a huge dish with fish. He flashed them a welcoming grin when he saw them and called out to Henry: “Ah, just in time. Come here, lad, and give me a hand!”

 

Henry ran eagerly over to the barbecue, and Killian threw Emma a look over the boy's head that somehow made her heart beat a little faster. “Swan, I told you to bring nothing but good mood,” he teased and raised an eyebrow. “Isn't your mood good enough?”

 

“It's very good,” she replied and meant it. “I just didn't want to come empty-handed.” She raised the bottle of white wine she'd brought along. “Got a corkscrew?”

 

He motioned his head in the direction of the back door leading into the kitchen. “Top drawer, I think,” he told her, “be my guest.”

 

Emma nodded and walked past him towards the back door. She hesitated for the tiniest bit before pushing it open. In a weird way, it felt like she was entering so much more than just the kitchen of his vacation home; also, his invitation had sounded pretty all-encompassing, hadn't it? _Or,_ she scolded herself mentally, _you're over-interpreting things again. Stop that._

 

When she stepped inside, the first thing she noticed was the smell. Like their own beach house, it smelled of old wood, aged linoleum and the salty sea air. But there was more. Of course, there was the perfume perfume of the garlic, the lemon and the herbs Killian had used on the fish. But above all lingered an enticing mixture of a faint smell of spiced body wash, leather and an undefinable scent that was Killian's very own. Emma blushed at the sheer fact that she even recognized it.

 

"Found it, love?" his voice brought her down from her reverie, as he called after her through the open door. Quickly, she opened the top drawer of the nearest cupboard and spotted the corkscrew. She grabbed it and headed outside again.

 

"Not a problem," she replied and opened the bottle while Killian and Henry were busy with the barbecue. Not long, and a delicious smell of grilled fish wafted across the porch.

 

It tasted as good as it smelled, and they relished their meal. Watching Henry's zeal made it even better for Emma. He didn't seem to be able to stop rehashing their sailing adventure over and over again, almost like an actual five year old instead of his grown-up, wise-ass twelve, and finally asked almost casually: "Maybe we can go again one day?" He looked almost pleadingly at Killian who tilted his head.

 

"Look," he replied carefully, "I have the boat at my disposal for the rest of my vacation. You and your mother are welcome to join me any time you like. Unless you have other plans, that is."

 

Henry's eyes flew to Emma's. "Can we? Mom?"

 

She smiled at his eagerness and loved him more than ever in that moment; this wasn't about Henry wanting to set her up with the cute neighbor; this was Henry, normally far too grown-up and mature for his age, finally acting like the kid he was. She made a quick decision. "On one condition." Unnoticed by her, Killian scrutinized her closely.

 

Henry bobbed up and down on his seat with excitement. "Which one?"

 

She pointed a severe finger at him. "You'll help with the sandwiches."

 

“Yes!” Henry gave a fist pump and jumped up from his seat. “I'll start right away!” And before a flabbergasted Emma could say anything, he darted from the porch, throwing a quick “Night, Killian! See you tomorrow!” over his shoulder before sprinting over to their own back door.

 

“Wow,” she commented dryly, “I guess he really wants to go sailing again.”

 

“Ah, about that, Swan...” Killian scratched behind his ear. “I hope you didn't feel pressured. It wasn't my intention, but your boy asked, and I...”

 

“No, it's fine, really,” she interrupted him, “Henry had a great time.” She paused only for the blink of an eye before she added a little shyly: “And so did I.” Killian flashed her a pleased, toothy grin, and she went on quickly: “If I didn't want to come, I'd find an excuse to chicken out, trust me.”

 

“Oh?” He cocked that vivid eyebrow and tilted his head. “I feel truly flattered then. Looks like I've come a long way from a potential axe murderer.”

 

Emma blushed a little and slapped his arm with the back of her hand. “How long are you gonna hold that against me?” she demanded to know.

 

“Until I find something better,” he replied in a low voice, and a quiet shiver crept up her spine. His eyes were fixed on hers, and she saw that little glint again she'd noticed already a few times before. The one that definitely said he was teasing her, maybe even flirting; but it could also mean more – an innuendo, a promise; _danger._

 

***

Killian was pleasantly surprised that Emma had agreed so easily to go sailing again the following day; he'd indeed felt a little guilty that the lad had asked him directly in front of her and thus been leaving her very little opportunity to decline. But he hadn't found it in him to find vague excuses – it had been such a pleasure to watch the boy's enthusiasm. On the one hand, he'd wanted to be honest with the boy, on the other hand he'd had the impression that also Emma had enjoyed herself, the sea and his company. More than that, he sensed that his beautiful, mysterious neighbor definitely seemed to be developing an interest in him. When he'd welcomed the lucky occasion to help her with the sun protection, he'd hesitated at first, because he hadn't been sure if this would be too much and perhaps make her back off; and that was a risk he didn't want to take, because Killian Jones – as guarded as he too was – had already admitted to himself that he'd started to fall for this woman. Once his offer had been out, he'd been afraid to have overstepped a line, but her reaction had encouraged him.

 

And then, of course, when he had laid his hands on her perfect skin... without being aware of it, Killian absentmindedly rubbed his thumbs over his fingertips in a slow, elliptic motion, recreating the feeling of her warm, silky, sun-kissed skin against his fingers. He'd had to muster every ounce of willpower not to make it too obvious a caress; how awful would it have been if she'd thought him to be a creep. But then he'd noticed her muscles twitch under his touch, and when he'd seen her fingers curl so tightly around the edge of her seat that the knuckles grew white, he'd understood that his touch had affected her – and not in an unpleasant way. She hadn't seemed to try and avoid his touch; he'd even had the impression that at one point she'd kind of _leaned_ into his touch somehow. That had made him bold, and when he'd caressed his fingertips over the spots behind her ears and whispered to her about the delicate skin there, it had been purely deliberate, and _bloody_ _hell_ , he had _seen_ the little hairs at the back of her neck bristle and felt the little shiver that ran down her spine. And that had done things to him, had conjured pictures before his eyes that weren't appropriate for this time and place but required a quieter moment, a more secluded place... and his hands on her body for other reasons than applying sun protection.

 

After Henry had disappeared so abruptly and Emma had openly assured him that she didn't feel forced to go sailing again the next day, but that she actually _wanted_ to, he felt a solid confidence build inside him, and he couldn't resist to throw a little tease and flirt her way. Oh, he would surely love to find something better to hold against her than the tease about the axe murderer, and if he was lucky, he would.

 

***

It was a cherished habit soon: by day they went sailing together, and they never came back without something to throw on the barbecue for dinner. But sailing wasn't all they did; and they didn't go in the same direction every day. Some days, Killian would take them a little more out on the open water where they could see the dancing flukes of whales from afar. One day, they just made their way along the coast and hoisted anchor in a quiet, secluded little bay where they dived into the ocean for a swim. That was the occasion when she almost betrayed herself, realizing she was gaping at Killian with her mouth actually hanging _open_ when he took off his t-shirt to jump into the water. She had to tell herself like a mantra: _do not stare at his body. Do not stare at his body. Oh my God._

 

Henry must have noticed something, because he grinned at her when Killian climbed up the ladder again. Thankfully, he didn't comment.

 

Emma never forgot to bring her sun protection, but what could she do – the spot between her shoulder blades was impossible to reach, so she always gladly accepted Killian's generously offered help. Enjoying the feeling of his hands on her skin – _firm but gentle_ – , secretly daydreaming of him caressing her, was her guilty pleasure; she had very soon given up pretending that she wasn't attracted to him. Because she _was_ : aside from his overall handsomeness it was his voice that made tiny shivers run down her spine when he talked to her in that enticing accent; and when he looked at her and did that thing with his eyebrows that could express everything from light teasing to unmistakable flirting – and she was never really sure what it was – , her stomach did a backflip.

 

Then, in quiet moments, when she watched him minding the helm in earnest, his sea blue eyes fixed on the horizon, or talking to Henry, she felt a little concerned, because she had to admit to herself that she wasn't indifferent towards him anymore. This was becoming more than pure physical attraction; this was Emma Swan beginning to fall for a man who seemed so perfect that he had to be too good to be true. And in those moments she tensed and wished she was somewhere else, not in his presence where everything he said or did distracted her from doing the reasonable thing and not allowing herself to feel more.

 

The shared dinners were filled with laughter and pleasant talk, and soon, Henry started to always try and find excuses to leave them alone. One evening of the second week, he made an early escape, and again, Emma found herself left alone with Killian. She insisted on helping him emptying the table and loading the dishwasher, but when they were done, she didn't find it in her to end the evening already and say good night right away, and so they sat down again, enjoying the soft evening breeze, until the bottle of white wine was empty. That was when Emma realized how late it had actually gotten, and she hastily murmured that she really should go home now.

 

Killian got up as well. “Very well,” he nodded, “I shall walk you.”

 

She chuckled, feeling a little dizzy from the wine. “But you don't have to,” she replied, “you do realize I only have to go next door?”

 

He tilted his head in that typical mixture of a shrug and a nod. “I know. Still, it would be bad form.” Before they reached the steps leading down to the sand, he offered her his arm, and she glanced at him with amazed eyes before linking her arm through his. “Wow, you're really old-fashioned, aren't you?” she teased.

 

He looked down at her with an unreadable expression in his cobalt blue eyes. “Why yes, in some things I am,” he told her in a low voice, and she quickly averted her eyes with a smile, feeling her cheeks heat up, not even understanding why.

 

Carefully, she set one foot in front of the other and was actually relieved to be able to hold on to Killian's arm while descending the stairs of his porch; the long day under the hot sun and especially the three glasses of wine took their toll, and the slight dizziness in her head matched the wobbliness of her legs. They climbed the stairs at the back of her house, and he accompanied her across the porch lit only by a dim light above the back door. When they had reached the door leading into the kitchen, Emma stopped to look at him and pulled her arm from his, almost a little reluctantly. She looked at him and found his eyes resting on her face, quietly studying her. There was something in the air between them, something vibrating – maybe it was only her impression, because she was a little dizzy from the wine... but then, whom was she trying to fool? She swallowed and licked her lips nervously. “Thank you for walking me home,” she said a little formally, “like a true gentleman.”

 

Killian tilted his head again, and this time it was the hint of a bow (boy, she was getting really good at distinguishing what his little gesture meant). “It was my pleasure,” he replied and surprised her by taking her left hand in his right and pulling it gently to his lips, brushing a feather-light kiss on it, in a very old-fashioned, endearing way that totally blew her off of her feet and left her open-mouthed. His eyes though never broke the contact with hers, which made the moment strangely intimate. “And I'm always a gentleman,” he added in a husky voice.

 

When the hold of his fingers loosened a little and he was about to let go of her hand, she instinctively curled her fingers around his, not letting him go, and he looked at her with a question in his eyes. For a heartbeat Emma hesitated, then she raised herself spontaneously on tiptoes and, before she could stop herself, kissed him lightly on the lips. Obviously, that took him completely by surprise, because he seemed almost a little paralyzed. It wasn't that he didn't respond, but it was very brief and soft. His lips were as warm and sensuous as they looked, and even the short touch sent a bolt of electricity coursing through her veins, making her crave more – but the moment was over, and he already pulled back. Of course, the damn gentleman thing; he thought she was tipsy – well, she actually _was_ – and didn't want to take advantage of that.

 

Emma blinked, a little confused about herself and what just had happened, what she'd _done_ – and about her burning wish to do it again. She looked at his lips, and then up into his eyes. Those were soft and warm and smiling.

 

“Goodnight, Swan,” he said after a moment and squeezed her fingers gently. “See you tomorrow?”

 

Only now she noticed that she was still holding on to his hand and let go of him reluctantly with a nod, suddenly embarrassed by her own boldness. “Tomorrow,” she murmured and hastily turned around to open the door and dart into the house.

 

Inside, she leaned against the door with a moan and a soft thud of her head against the wood, closing her eyes. “What the hell was that?”

 

***

When Killian had closed his own door behind him, his – belated – reaction was very similar to Emma's. He slumped down on a kitchen chair, let his breath out with a huff and touched his lips with the tips of his right index and middle finger. It was as if he could still feel the soft, tentative brush of her mouth there, something he hadn't expected at all, although he'd been dreaming of it lately. There was no denying it, and he'd never been the one lying to himself: he knew he was falling for her, probably had already fallen. He also was sure that his first instinct about her had been right: she had feelings for him, too, definitely. It was more than just the way she bit her lips sometimes when he raised his eyebrows at her or how she leaned into his touch when she let him apply the sun protection to her back. Yes, the air between them was often buzzing with electricity, but that was more a sign of the unmistakable attraction between them. Yet, there was more than that.

 

It was the earnest concern and compassion in her eyes when she listened to his stories about loss and pain in his life; the trust and naturalness when she told him episodes from her childhood in various foster homes that had made her want to help other orphaned kids when she'd grown up.

 

It was the way she smiled at him when she caught his look over Henry's head while he was teaching the lad how to use a sextant or tie a sailor's knot; the soft, thoughtful expression in her eyes when he looked up to find them resting on him.

 

No, she definitely felt something, too... but he knew she was still very, very careful. From what he'd learned about her life, her past – the way she'd been let down by too many people in her life, including the men she'd let herself care about – he knew she had her walls; they were not insurmountable, but they were high enough, and he could watch her struggle with them. Sometimes she seemed to open up, but at other times she seemed to close down. That she'd kissed him now showed him that she was almost there, _almost_... but not completely yet, which was why she'd done it under the revealing influence of the wine.

 

Oh, he was sure he could have made her resistance crumble even before tonight, if he'd really aspired to; it hadn't gone unnoticed by him how the lad had made sure to leave them alone on occasion, little brigand that he was. It would have been more than easy for Killian to take advantage of such a chance... flirt just a little more, lean in just a little closer to whisper in her ear, to brush his breath or maybe even his lips over her throat and make her shiver. If he'd only tried in earnest, he could have made her go weak in his arms, putty in his hands. Sometimes it looked like she begged him to persuade her. But he also knew that persuasion was not the right way, it _never_ was, and _especially_ not with Emma Swan. She would have regretted anything she'd have done without being really ready for it. No, if they were to become something, it would have to be because she wanted it, wanted _him_ – not because of any trickery.

 

Killian wasn't sure though where to go from there now – address the kiss? And risk she might be uncomfortable and retreat into her shell? Pretend it never happened to leave it up to her how to handle it – and risk she might feel rejected again? Damn, this wasn't easy.

 

He sighed and murmured: “It never is.”

 

***

After a night of restless sleep, of tossing and turning, Emma was almost relieved to get up before seven o'clock. She was still confused by the events of the previous night and couldn't believe she'd actually done what she'd been dreaming of quite some time already and actually _kissed_ Killian Jones. Not that she'd never made a first step, mind you – but never with a man she felt she could care about; normally, she avoided those like the plague and followed her first instinct: turn around and _run_ like hell. Strangely enough, with him she'd never really had that instinct. When she looked at him, she felt the exciting tingling of danger along her spine – mixed with a strange feeling of safety. She really didn't know what to think about it, but spending all that time with him she'd discovered that she desperately wanted to find out. Henry was right. She _was_ miserable. And she was tired of being miserable, of being alone, of not caring.

 

And she'd thought that Killian would understand that, would be eager to see her opening up to him – because she'd gotten the impression that he... he may care for her. Or had that been only wishful thinking? Suddenly, she was unsure. His reaction to her kiss hadn't been very enthusiastic, and she was afraid she'd made a mistake. _Damn that wine_. Had she made a fool of herself now?

 

Emma groaned and ran a hand through her hair. Maybe he wasn't even interested. Maybe she looked like a frivolous woman to him now. Or worse, _desperate_. Both wasn't what she wanted him to think of her. She paced around in her kitchen like a lioness in a cage. What to do now? Address the kiss? Try to explain? And risk he could tell her – sweetly, politely – that he wasn't interested in more than a pleasant acquaintance for a vacation? Or pretend she'd never kissed him? And risk he could think she'd only done it on a whim? If he cared about her, he'd be either disappointed and never approach her again, or he'd be put off.

 

No, she needed to explain. She didn't even know what the purpose was, because if he didn't care about her, it didn't matter what he thought about her. But she knew she wanted to make herself clear to him; if he'd politely decline, at least she wouldn't have to ask herself _what if_. Ask herself: _what could have been if you'd only mustered enough courage, taken that leap of faith?_ She didn't want to remember this moment as the moment she'd _almost_ had enough guts to give happiness a chance.

 

Nervously, she peered outside from behind the curtains of her kitchen window and saw Killian coming back from his morning run, and she knew in about twenty minutes he'd come out on his porch, freshly showered, to have his morning coffee. And right, just like every day, twenty minutes later, he came outside and sat down on one of the wicker chairs on his porch; the same chair he always sat in. He had his steaming cup of coffee in his hands, but he wasn't drinking; he looked thoughtful and far away. He looked confused – _he looked like she felt_. Somehow, that gave her hope.

 

Emma hesitated for the tiniest second, but then she took a deep breath and her own cup of coffee that had gone tepid by now (but at least it was something to hold on) and left the safety of her kitchen. She descended the few steps from her own porch to the beach, crossed the small distance he'd walked her the evening before, and climbed up the stairs to his porch. He was so deeply lost in his thoughts that he noticed her only when she cleared her throat.

 

Slowly, he got up from his chair, his cup still in his hands – as if he needed something to hold on, too. He smiled, but his eyes were a little wary, lacking the usual welcoming warmth, she noticed with alarm. "Good morning."

 

"Morning," she replied nervously and took a step nearer, feeling more agitated than ever, more than she'd have liked to admit. "I didn't want to disturb you..."

 

"You don't," he was quick to assure and swayed out his right hand. "Please do have a seat."

 

 _This doesn't sound right,_ she thought nervously, _this is way too formal_. Damn, things had gotten awkward between them, and it was her fault. She shook her head slightly and decided to plunge right in at the deep end. "Listen, Killian," she started and fidgeted with the cup in her hands, "about yesterday..." She stumbled over her own words, not really sure how to explain herself. "I'm usually not... I was a little dizzy. From the wine." He raised a questioning eyebrow, and she went on, feeling a little silly: "I'm sorry I kissed you." She saw his face fall a little and added hastily: "I mean, I'm not sorry I _kissed_ you, but..." _Damn. You're babbling again. You're gonna blow it._

 

Killian interrupted her by raising his hand, his expression unreadable suddenly. "You don't have to apologize," he replied, "I owe you _my_ apologies if by any chance I gave you the impression that I didn't appreciate it."

 

"Uh... huh?" Emma's thoughts were whirling now, and his unique, sometimes verbose way of expressing himself didn't really help. She was trying to wrap her mind around what he meant.

 

Instead of answering her non-verbalized question, he tilted his head, bore his eyes into hers and asked matter-of-factly: “Are you sober now?”

 

“Yes,” she replied instantly, almost a little defiance in her voice, and felt a little blush rising. But she raised her chin almost stubbornly. She'd started this, and now she'd go through with it, come hell or high water.

 

"Good. You see," he went on and crossed the porch, slowly approaching her, "the thing is... I have one rule." His voice dropped a few nuances, and without noticing, she curled her bare toes and pressed them into the wood of the porch.

 

"What rule?" she asked feebly, her mouth dry all of a sudden. He was standing at arm's length from her now, and part of her was internally screaming: _too close!_ while the other part screamed: _not close enough!_ And what the _fuck_ was happening here?

 

He raised a devilish eyebrow. "When _I_ kiss a woman, the only thing to make her dizzy..." – he paused and _fuck_ , he ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth – "...is _me_."

 

Emma's stomach did a backflip, two, three – and she had no idea what was happening now. She'd come over here to clear things, to explain herself... she'd expected him to listen to her, to hear her out, then to answer her in some way... but here he was, talking about _kissing her?_ "Uh... okay," was all she finally managed, not sure what to say, how to act now.

 

As it turned out, Killian didn't expect her to do neither. Holding her gaze with his own, he put down his mug on the little wicker coffee table, then he gently took her own cup from her hands and put it away, too. Emma swallowed, the look in his eyes almost frighteningly intense, and her gaze dropped to his lips for a moment. She wanted to say something, but for the life of her she couldn't think of the right words – more precisely, she couldn't think of anything at all that even remotely resembled a coherent sentence. Instead, she licked her lips. When he'd gotten rid of the cups, he closed the last bit of distance between them, stepping right into her personal space. She looked up into his eyes again and felt hypnotized for a moment, paralyzed even. The blue of his irises darkened a little, and Emma drew a deep breath when their stares locked. Her own pupils widened, and the feeling of mesmerization increased to the extent that she thought  _ this is what it must be like for a prey being fixed by a snake _ – she couldn't have moved or averted her eyes, even if she'd tried, and the stronger that sensation became, the louder became the little voice in her head that told her to  _ run, run, run _ – and then suddenly, the fine skin around his eyes creased a little, and there it was: the smile that coated her soul with the soothing calmness she'd come to associate with him. Gentle, open, honest. He blinked slowly, his long, sinful eyelashes distracting her for a moment, and she mirrored his gesture without being aware of it and exhaled all of her tension and panic. 

 

Carefully, he slid his left arm around her waist, his warm palm coming to rest on the small of her back, while his right hand brushed a lock behind her ear and tenderly cupped her cheek. Emma leaned into his embrace and tilted her head a little back, lips slightly parted. She kept her eyes open and saw him come nearer, closing the remaining distance between them inch by inch, and the little voice in her head hummed an enchanting melody, and it sounded like _stay, stay, stay._ Her eyelids fluttered shut the same moment Killian's lips touched hers. She let herself sink against his body, his lips, and absurdly enough, it felt like coming home. It was so similar, yet so different from the previous night; the press of his mouth against hers was, like his hands, _firm but gentle_ : firm enough to uncover a hint of the raw passion she'd always suspected was hidden underneath his calm surface; firm enough to express possessiveness, _brand_ her as his. But gentle enough to turn that possessiveness into something safe and solid rather than dangerous and threatening; gentle enough to signalize that if she fell he'd be there to catch her, and that she'd land softly.

 

His hand wandered to the back of her neck, the touch of his fingers against her hairline familiar again, the spot where he'd always stolen a light caress when he was applying that damn sun protection. Emma's hands slid up his torso, feeling his firm body through the soft material of his t-shirt, until they were resting against his chest while she allowed herself to get totally lost in that kiss. His lips were soft and demanding at the same time, and she eagerly followed those demands and kissed him back, opening up for him and savoring the taste of coffee and sweet desire on his lips and his heavenly tongue. He took his time with her mouth, kissing her slowly, languidly and thoroughly; nothing could have prepared her for this. While the ever-present butterflies in her stomach were dancing like banshees, she heard her blood rush in her ears and curled her fingers into the fabric of his shirt without even noticing. She heard a soft sigh, and only when their lips finally, reluctantly parted, she realized that it had been her making that little noise.

 

Killian tilted his head back a little to look at her searchingly, questioningly, and let his right hand travel down from her neck to her waist where it found its neat fit. Emma didn't avoid his gaze, she had just problems focusing her eyes anywhere but on his mouth. She swayed a little and was glad to be still in his arms, because _holy shit_ , she _did_ feel dizzy, so his rule was obeyed obviously; her blood seemed to be _everywhere_ in her body but in her brain, and so she just managed a feeble, stupid: "Okay..."

 

He raised that damn eyebrow again. _"Okay?"_ he echoed in an amused, fondly teasing tone that held a whole new quality of intimacy now. "Is that all?"

 

Suddenly, all the awkwardness was gone. She smiled right into his shining eyes. "Better than wine," she replied, "by far."

 

He loosened his embrace a little, but that didn't break the closeness between them. Emma liked the way his hands rested almost casually on her hips now, his thumbs grazing the delicate skin above the waistband of her sweatpants underneath her shirt. Goosebumps spread along her spine.

 

"So," he remarked nonchalantly and smirked a little, "you think I'm _hella_ cute?"

 

She huffed and averted her eyes for a moment. "I _knew_ it," she grumbled. "You did overhear what I said that evening. What else did you hear?"

 

He tilted his head in a shrug. "Well, on the plane I heard you say you like your life as it is, but I don't believe that." Emma swallowed and stared at the backs of her hands that were still resting on his chest, like they belonged there. Damn, when had the playful banter turned into something serious she wasn't even sure she wanted to talk about? "I don't believe it," he went on, "because I recognize a fellow poor unfortunate soul when I see one." Now, she hiked her eyes up to his again and found a warm, sincere smile there that caressed her heart. "We've all been bruised and battered,” he said earnestly. “Listen, Emma – I'm not looking for a holiday one-time thing distraction. I want this to continue when we get back home."

 

Her heart skipped a beat at his words, but she also felt a weight on her shoulders. "Well, if you heard all that," she sighed, "you know already that I'm not... easy to handle."

 

For a moment, his eyes glittered with that devilish spark again, and she felt his thumbs press a little into her flesh. "We shall see about that," he replied in a voice that was a nuance lower now, darker... pulling heavily deep in her belly. "But," he went on, all serious and sincere again, "you see, me knowing about your issues and still telling you what I just told you, should be the best proof that I'm going to stick around." She frowned a little in question, and he added with a smile: "I'm not risking my peace of mind for someone I see as a mere pastime.”

 

She blinked nervously, not used to letting someone come so close so soon. No, letting someone come so close, period. "You don't know me...” she reminded him reluctantly – reluctantly, because she _wanted_ him to know her. To know her and _still_ want to stay. “You might change your mind."

 

He frowned. "Why would you say such a thing?" He leaned back a little to scrutinize her and saw with alarm that she was tense again. "Besides,” he went on almost casually, “I do know you."

 

"Oh, really?" Emma assumed a teasing tone, aiming to step back from these unpredictable depths of their conversation. "And what do you think you know about me?"

 

He pursed his lips thoughtfully, and tilted his head. "Let's see. You're beautiful. Fierce." That made her blush a little. "A good mother,” he went on, and she pressed her lips together in that little smile of hers. “Strong and independent. Because you have to be,” he added. “But sometimes you're tired of it." Killian paused, and her smile faded a little while she averted her eyes. "You can take care of yourself and your boy just fine,” he said softly, “but sometimes you wonder how it would be to... let someone else take care of you." Emma bit her lip and swallowed nervously; this was far too close to home. She felt raw and unprotected. "But you never dare taking the risk to find out, because you've been let down too often," he continued his full-on analysis of her life, which was ridiculous, because the man had known her for how long, like two weeks? She was breathing heavily now, slightly shifting from one foot to the other like a horse ready to sprint away, as if she wanted to free herself from his embrace, her instinct to run almost overwhelming now. But as if Killian could sense her sudden restlessness, he spread his fingers and held her firmly, safely. She looked up at him with weary eyes and was amazed by his earnest, affectionate expression. "Your walls are up," he went on gently, and now her gaze was glued to his lips, hanging onto every word he was saying. "And you know they will keep you safe, but you also know they will keep everything else out, and you want to let them down, you really want to, but you're scared.” He raised his right hand and took one of her locks between his fingers. “You don't know how."

 

 _Show me,_ she wanted to reply, but she could not speak. She could just look at him, amazed by his words. He had just stripped her bare and was looking right into the core of her very soul now, a man she had met only like two weeks ago, and she _knew_ this should scare the living hell out of her. But it didn't. He was silent now, his gaze resting on her like a protective blanket, his barely perceptible smile soothing her soul and calming her down. She drew a deep breath.

 

"Wow," she finally said feebly, "am I that much of an open book?"

 

He tilted his head the tiniest bit. "Actually, I'm quite perceptive, love. Sometimes though..." – he smoothed her hair behind her shoulder – "...you're an enigma. Waiting to be solved."

 

She swallowed again, hard. The lump in her throat was almost to big, and she almost swallowed her words, too, as if they were too big to say. But then she drew a deep breath. "Care to give it a try?" she asked almost casually, her heart beating frantically now. She barely dared to look at him, but in the end she did and basked in his smile and the rays of sunshine that were his eyes. He laid his fingertips lightly on the side of her throat, his thumbs stroking her jawline.

 

“If you'll let me,” he replied, “with pleasure.”

 


End file.
